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He meant from Demos, Fadon knew.
“No. I expect it may be a while.”
“The men?” Jon rolled his head to the side to look around the fire. Yorkus and Varia sat lost in thought.
Fadon rubbed his bearded jaw. “They’ll live too.”
They’ll never be the same, but they will live, Fadon said to himself.
“Fadon—”
“Get some sleep, Jon.” The Ongahri captain knew where the next subject was headed. He stood then and walked over to check on the horses, his heart and mind heavy.
He wanted to kill that blue-eyed Servant. It was Demos who was responsible for Fadon’s men’s deaths, he who had withheld something he had no right to. All that time, from Providence to the cave, the Servant had known what Sierra was, an omega whose estrus had turned into the ultimate weapon, taking the minds and lives of one too many Ongahri. And now Fadon was relying on nothing but the man’s word that the omega would be returned, whole and sane, to her true people, people who would care for her, cherish her.
But when his anger cooled and logic was welcomed back in, Fadon visited every scenario of how it would have played out had he known from the start that she was Omega. No matter what he could have done, he still came up with the same result: Demos getting her away to safety.
Fadon never would’ve let Sierra travel alone with Demos, and knew he himself would have adamantly refused to not take her straight to the Mor with his men in tow. He wouldn’t have trusted himself nor his envoy, resulting in the same outcome, snowstorm or not. Nor would he have waited patiently in Providence on the off chance he could get a message to his brother to get his ass on a horse and come in person to claim her, trusting he would do so. The latter would have been the sensible thing. But it was too late now.
Resigned, he cursed softly. The most important thing was that she live. Tomorrow he’d be home, and he would wait for the Servant’s message. He could only move forward; the past was a futile land.
“Ongar, be with her,” he said to the night sky. He hoped the god could hear him, because prayer and hope was all he had.
Chapter 21
Sierra
My second day at the cabin was spent alone. Demos never returned. When I woke up to the morning light, the only evidence I saw of his presence was a bowl of fruit and a full pitcher of water on the table. I ate a little, drank the water, then slept.
When I woke up again, the sun was high, and I needed to use the chamber pot. My strength had returned just enough for me to get out of bed, use the privy, and walk to the open window, where I got a better look at where we were. The breeze felt amazing on my skin, and I extended my arm to feel the sunshine. That was when I noticed how thin I was, almost skeletal. A look at my legs as I raised my shift showed more evidence of my illness. I was skin and bones. With my fingertips, I felt my cheeks, my chin. Tight, dry skin on bone. I could only imagine what I looked like.
How long had I been ill?
“There’s a mirror in one of the trunks.”
I spun around and almost fell.
“Oh, dear,” the woman said. “You are still too weak to stand. Come, back to bed with you.” Now at my side, her arm went around me, guiding me back to the bed.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“My name is Auria.” She tsked as she covered me with the blanket. “You need more food, child. I’ll see what I can come up with.”
The woman was old, but her voice was clear as a bell—strong and confident, not that shaky, grandmotherly tone most women her age was wont to have. She was tall, her posture straight as a rod, and lithe. Her gray hair was long and piled on top of her head in a matron’s bun. Her clothing was most alarming: tight breeches and a short-waisted tunic.
She poured me a cup of water, and I sat up as she propped me up against the pillows.
“Here. Drink up. Oh! The mirror. Let’s see…” She walked over to one of the trunks and opened it. After rifling through its contents, she brought out a silver hand mirror, along with a matching brush. “Here we go. And a brush, too. With all that hair of yours, I’m sure you’ll want it out of your way. I’ll be happy to braid it for you.”
She took the cup away now that I had emptied it, then handed me the mirror.
I gasped at what I saw. My eyes were sunken in, my cheekbones sharp and bruised with purple spots, making me look ghastly. Under my eyes were dark rings. My lips were cracked and pale. But what was more unsettling than anything was my hair. Thick strands of snow white, almost silver, floated over my head like a wild animal.
“That’s impossible,” I whispered. Hair didn’t just change its color like that. It wasn’t like the gray hair from age, either. It was pure white.
“I assure you, it’s quite possible,” Auria said with a chuckle. “Startling, I take it?”
All I could do was nod. It was too shocking, so I gazed at the eyes staring back at me—my eyes. They were large and bright and a blue-green so intense they looked like aquamarines. The color was a more amplified version of what my eyes should look like. Impossible.
